


Beautiful Loser

by wocket



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Bank Robbery, Hook-Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29455662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: Somehow a bank robbery isn't the riskiest part of Tim's day.
Relationships: Tim McVeigh/Peter Kevin Langan
Kudos: 1





	Beautiful Loser

**Northeastern Ohio  
December 1994**

_Tick, tick, tick._

“Thirty seconds, boys.” A short man in a Richard Nixon mask taps his wristwatch before drawing a Taurus 9-millimeter pistol.

It’s the end of the day, just before closing time. The bank is packed with people, and now, four masked gunmen have joined the busy crowd. 

The man in the Nixon mask jumps onto a table and points his pistol in the air. “Get down! No alarms! No hostages!” 

A burly man with a bulletproof vest and the face of Jimmy Carter moves around the bank, weapon drawn, making sure the customers are listening to the instructions shouted by the gang. The customers titter in fear and shock, dropping to their knees. 

An older woman shrieks when the masked man points a gun at her face.

“Move faster!” he shouts at her, words muffled through the cheap mask.

A tall, skinny man - a Ronald Reagan mask on this one - inserts himself between the aggressive gunman and a line of customers.

“Just do what he says,” the man breathes to the woman. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You should get on the floor.”

The shrieking lady cowers, but listens to his polite direction. The skinny man is calmer than the rest, less agitated. He’s armed, too, but not wildly pointing his weapon around like the other masked men. 

Lyndon B. Johnson and Jimmy Carter head for the counter, directing the tellers to hand over cash only while the other two men take care of crowd control. The thieves go for the cash drawers, completely ignoring the vaults. The goal is making out with as much cash as they possibly can.

“Sixty seconds!” Nixon keeps time, alerting the men in intervals as he goes from customer to customer collecting wallets. A few seconds later, and louder: “Thirty seconds!”

Johnson and Carter stuff the last of the dollar bills into their duffel bags.

“It’s time!”

Like clockwork, the gang of thieves hustle themselves out the glass door.

A rusty brown Ford Econoline pulls up in front of the bank. The thieves heave the duffel bags full of cash into the back of the van before clamoring inside. The van peels away from the bank.

“Next time we need the real fucking thing.” 

The man in the Jimmy Carter mask tosses what looks like a pipe bomb into the center of the van.

The tall, thin man next to him rips off his Reagan mask. He’s got a high-and-tight and piercing blue eyes. “It’s not real?” Timothy McVeigh asks. “What the fuck?”

“It’s just to get people going,” Pete explains, taking off his Nixon mask and combing a hand through his hair. The small, effeminate-looking man has a goatee and a scar below his left eye. “Hey, maybe you can take a look at that, Tim. You know your way around one of those?”

“Are you serious, Pete?”

“We’re very serious about the revolution.”

“You’re a crazy bastard,” Tim says, shaking his head.

“Damn right!” The youngest man pulls off a Jimmy Carter mask. “That’s why Commander Pedro’s in charge.”

“Don’t you know it,” Pete grins. “All right, sit tight. We’ve got less than five minutes ’til we make it to the safe house.”

The van veers around a corner.

Tim leans back against the side of the van and listens to the other men chatter. Tim is effectively the newest member of this gang. Tim had only met Richard “Wild Bill” Guthrie once or twice at a motorcycle rally up in South Dakota, and he’d only known the kid in the Jimmy Carter mask, Kevin, about two days before this afternoon’s heist. Tim met the leader of the group, Peter Kevin Langan, on one of his many cross-country road trips, and of all the faces that have dispersed into the horizon, Pete is one of a few that’s stuck around (at least for a little while). 

Tim waits quietly during the rest of the ride. He listens to Kevin bitch about why they need to have _real_ explosive devices, offering no commentary. As someone who is still on the outside looking in, it’s not his place to provide critique.

A minute or two later, the van pulls up alongside a decrepit warehouse. Peter opens up the back door.

“After you, boys.”

*

Back at the meeting point, after the cash has been counted, Pete disperses everyone’s cut. One by one, the men disappear from the warehouse. 

Pete saves Tim’s payout for last. “One thousand dollars.”

“Not bad for a day’s work.”

Pete grins. “You did good.”

Tim doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just nods gratefully. He sticks his hands in his pockets.

“You got somewhere to go?” Pete asks.

Tim tries to come up with a lie. “Uh… no. I don’t.” The truth is what comes out, despite his intentions. 

“I know a spot maybe 20, 30 miles from here where we can lay low. Come on. The bike’s out back.”

Tim doesn’t want the adrenaline to burn off, or for this experience to end, so he finds it easy to go along with Pete. “Good deal.”

Pete’s Harley is hidden behind a Dumpster beside the warehouse. Tim’s never had a motorcycle of his own (they’re expensive, and besides, Tim likes his faithful road warrior, a silver Geo Spectrum that’s seen Tim across most of America). Climbing on the bike behind Pete is more natural now than it had been at first. Tim had been hesitant, always worrying that riding bitch on Pete’s Harley makes him look like a pussy or something. Nobody ever says jack, though, not after the way Pete stares them down if they think about making any smart comments.

The chilly air gives Tim an excuse to lean into Pete’s body on the bike. He tells himself it’s practical. He tries not to think about it too much, focusing instead on the sensation of the wind against his skin.

“The spot” turns out to be a dingy motel outside of town, about twenty-five minutes down the main road. No matter, Tim’s stayed in worse places.

“We just need one room, huh?” Pete asks Tim.

Tim squints in the dark, trying to make out the look on Pete’s face. “Right. Okay.”

Tim climbs off the bike and walks into the small office to get a room, giving a false name and handing over $30 in cash.

“Check-out is at 10:00 a.m., Mr. Kling,” the clerk offers politely.

“Thanks,” Tim says, eager to get the hell out of there. When Tim steps back outside with a key, Pete is standing under a lamppost tugging a cigarette from a pack of Kools.

Tim waits with Pete while he finishes his cigarette. Finally, Pete drops the cigarette butt and steps on it with the tip of his cowboy boot.

Tim unlocks the door. Adrenaline is still bursting through Tim’s veins as Pete follows him into the motel room.

“Hell of a day, huh?” Pete asks, grinning at Tim. He strips off his leather jacket and throws it over the back of a chair.

“Shit, yeah,” Tim agrees, running a hand over his buzzed scalp. “It was great. I can still hear my blood pumping.”

Pete sits down and kicks off his black cowboy boots. “Take a load off, McVeigh. Smoke a cigarette or something,” Pete recommends. He points to a spot and Tim sits.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“Of course I don’t?”

“Look at you… clean cut, All-American…”

Tim rolls his eyes.

“Let me guess… you graduated high school?” Pete asks.

Tim nods affirmatively.

“College?”

“A little,” Tim shrugs.

“Never been arrested?”

Tim bites his tongue and shakes his head no. Pete is making him feel transparent. “And what about you? Dropout?”

“Tenth grade.”

“Jail?”

“By fifteen.” 

Tim whistles.

“Homeless the year after that,” Pete continues. “Couldn’t have been a bigger disappointment to my ex-Marine dad. All that education gone to waste.”

“I know about being a disappointment,” Tim agrees.

Pete raises an eyebrow. “You? No way.”

Tim shrugs, remembering that dissatisfied look in his mother’s eyes. He doesn’t know which was worse, seeing that look or the total absence of it when she would disappear completely. He doesn’t give Pete an answer.

“All that time fucking up on the streets after a picture perfect childhood… you learn a lot. Maybe not what you want to learn, but you see a lot. All the wrong things,” Pete explains. “ _‘Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me false to my nature? Rather say I play the man I am’_ ,” Pete quotes.

“ _Macbeth_?” Tim asks. “No - it’s from _Coriolanus_!” He grins. “ _‘Nature teaches beasts to know their friends’_.”

Pete seems to appreciate the fact that Tim can quote a bit of Shakespeare, too. “To friends,” he cheers, and they clink their beer bottles together in a toast. “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Pete warns him.

“It takes all kinds, huh?”

“Yeah. All types,” Pete says quietly. He’s so suddenly _serious_ that Tim feels like there’s something he doesn’t know about the man, something deeper he’s referencing. There’s a real mystery surrounding Pete, and it’s not entirely to do with the ARA.

Tim doesn’t pry, though, and when Tim looks into Pete’s dark, beady eyes, there’s a warm look there. For better or worse, Tim trusts him.

“My heart’s still pounding, too,” Tim admits.

Pete grins. “You feel it right… there,” he says, touching the tip of his index finger to Tim’s chest.

Tim looks down at Pete’s hand and back up at Pete. His expression is inscrutable, but the tension is palpable. There’s a split-second moment where Tim feels crazy. Then he decides to kill the fear, to strangle it and bury it. He covers Pete’s hand with his own.

Pete is the one who eliminates the space between their bodies, leaning up and pressing his mouth to Tim’s.

Tim thinks Pete is going to deck him, maybe call him a faggot, or a freak. Pete just puts his fucking hand on Tim’s neck, leaning into the kiss.

Pete’s reaction is approval — _acceptance_. A dangerous liaison. Tim half-expected this to feel dirty, but it feels… good.

Pete opens his mouth wider, giving Tim better access as their tongues lick against each other, slow but heated.

Tim runs his hands down Pete’s sides. When Pete doesn’t resist, Tim drags him closer, hands clutching his thighs and pulling him into Tim’s lap. Pete straddles Tim, and Tim settles his big hands on Pete’s slight hips. At 5’3”, he’s significantly smaller than Tim (about a foot shorter in comparison).

Tim is able to get his arm around Pete’s waist. He’s so small that if Tim closes his eyes he can pretend the weight in his lap is a girl and not the leader of a white separatist terrorist cell with a resumé longer than Jesse James.

Tim can’t get enough of his big hands covering Pete. He touches Pete in places just to gauge how slight he feels. Tim’s palms curl around his bicep, his wrist, his waist.

Tim presses the heel of his hand to the bulge in Pete’s jeans, wanting to get him off. Pete just keeps knocking Tim’s hand away, redirecting him where he wants him to go.

Pete tugs Tim’s lower lip between his teeth. Looking for a reaction, he bites so hard that Tim tightens his fingers in Pete’s hair, yanking when he gets a fistful. It’s a warning, and Pete gasps. Tim does it again, swallowing the little sound.

Tim’s hand dips below Pete’s waistband. His fingers stop, surprised when he feels something like lace under the heavy denim of Pete’s jeans. _Is Pete wearing women’s underwear?_ Tim doesn’t actually ask the question that runs through his head, just withdraws his hand so he can grab Pete’s ass over his pants.

“Lay down, man,” Pete eventually tells him. 

Tim scoots backwards until he can spread out on the bed with his head on the pillow. He keeps his eyes on Pete, who leans forward and starts undoing Tim’s belt with surprisingly nimble fingers.

Pete pushes Tim’s black t-shirt up, revealing his abs. He hooks his fingers in Tim’s belt loops and _pulls_ , tugging Tim’s dark jeans down his thighs.

“Pete —”

“Shh,” Pete replies. 

“Shit,” Tim breathes when Pete’s tongue descends on his skin. 

“Take off your shirt,” Pete tells him with hungry eyes. Tim obeys.

Pete uses the tip of his tongue to draw little patterns on his flesh. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, McVeigh,” Pete promises. He closes his mouth over the head of Tim’s dick, hollowing his cheeks and sucking.

“Oh,” Tim murmurs, taken aback. Tim closes his eyes, focusing on the feeling.

Pete moans and reaches inside his own shirt to tweak a nipple as Tim fucks his mouth, encouraging every nimble motion of Pete’s tongue with a groan and a _yes_. 

Peter is more into this than Tim thought a guy like him would be. The blowjob is sloppy and uncoordinated, but there’s a delirious effort that Tim commends. He hisses when Pete’s jagged fingernails dig into his thighs.

Pete reaches for one of Tim’s hands and pulls it up to his shaggy brown hair. Tim clenches instinctively, getting even harder when he sees how much that seems to turn Pete on.

Pete moans around his dick, barely a response but it sends Tim’s head spinning. 

“Oh, fuck,” Tim moans, bucking up into Pete’s mouth uncontrollably. He clutches the sheets, knuckles turning white. “You like that?” It might sound like a pornographic taunt, but his question is real.

Peter seems more comfortable on his knees. That doesn’t bother Tim.

Pete brushes his fingertips over Tim’s navel and lower, feeling the ridge of his hipbone. Underneath Pete’s attention, Tim starts to feel restricted by his jeans and pauses Pete so he can kick them down his legs. His pants land somewhere on the motel floor.

Pete’s left hand goes back to Tim’s hip and Tim catches it in his own, running a thumb over Pete’s scarred knuckle. “What happened here?” Tim asks quietly.

“Fucking cops,” Pete replies sourly. 

“You got shot?” Tim asks, surprised.

“Yep,” Pete answers, without dwelling on the topic. He takes his hand back.

“You can trust me,” Tim says suddenly. In his body language, in all the things he’s not saying, Pete is telling so much. Tim doesn’t know what the full story is, but he wants Pete to know he can share it.

Tim’s sentence causes Peter to stop and sit up.

“You think I’d be caught dead in this hotel room with you if not? I know a lot of assholes, Tim, and I know you’re not one of them.”

Tim uses a hand on Pete’s shoulder to pull him in for another kiss. It’s good that the gang trusts him, but Peter’s trust feels more…. noteworthy.

“Damn,” Tim mutters through his teeth. It’s unclear if it’s in response to the gunshot scar or Pete’s lips descending upon the head of his dick again.

With Pete’s acquiescence, Tim takes the lead, thrusting his hips and setting the pace. Pete’s mouth is wet and welcome and pliant. A tangible thrill goes through Tim’s body when he hears Pete gag around him. “Oh, fuck, that’s a pretty sight,” Tim says in a low voice.

Pete whimpers; a hot, needy sound.

Tim realizes Pete likes the way it feels and likes the way he’s talking like some chick is sucking his dick. “Look at you,” Tim breathes. “Your mouth… your mouth is so fucking pretty wrapped around my dick.”

Pete moans, a girlish noise, high-pitched and wrecked.

Tim thrusts harder. “Be a good little slut,” he tells Pete, not believing the words are coming out of his mouth. “ _Take it_ ,” he hisses, letting out a hollow groan. His muscles tense and then all of the tension in his body just dissipates as he comes in Pete’s mouth. Pete swallows, sitting back on his haunches.

Tim reaches for Pete’s zipper but he pushes Tim’s hand out of the way. “Thanks,” he dismisses, settling comfortably next to Tim. “I’m all right.”

 _What the fuck do we do now?_ Tim wonders, grabbing his boxers from the floor. This isn’t anonymous. He can’t run away. Tim cracks his knuckles, a nervous habit. _You just had a fucking orgasm, McVeigh, why are you acting so twitchy?_ Tim thinks to himself.

“Put on a movie,” Pete suggests, noticing the tension in Tim’s hunched shoulders.

Tim hopes he doesn’t mean a skin flick or something. Tim grabs the remote control and flips through the channels. When he lands on an action movie (something more his speed), Pete doesn’t complain.

Tim settles in what he considers an appropriate distance.

Pete cuffs the back of Tim’s neck. “I’m not going to bite.”

Tim moves closer. He’s still nursing his first and only drink as Pete cracks open another beer. Tim’s never been much of a drinker.

They don’t make it more than twenty minutes into the movie before Tim’s stomach rumbles loudly. “Hey, you hungry?” Tim asks Pete.

“Yeah,” Pete answers. He can tell Tim is starving. 

Tim hops out of bed and pulls on his black jeans, searching through a stack of menus for something good.

Tim finds the telephone number for Pizza Hut. “Wanna split a pizza? What’s your damage?”

Pete is quick to answer. “Cheese.”

Tim waits for Pete to keep going. “Cheese? That’s it?”

Pete nods. “I’m watching my figure.”

Tim’s not sure if it’s a joke or another piece of Pete’s puzzle.

“Suit yourself,” Tim replies. He picks up the phone and dials Pizza Hut.“Let me get a large pepperoni pizza with mushrooms, olives, and green peppers. And sausage. Oh, and half is… cheese only.” Tim says the phrase like it’s foreign. He puts his hand over the receiver and asks Pete one more time if he’s sure. He gets a thumbs up in response.

Tim gives the pizza place the name of the motel and their room number.

“Hungry, huh?” Pete chuckles as Tim hangs up the phone.

Tim shrugs. He’s worked up an appetite. “What?” Tim asks, self-conscious, when he notices Pete staring at his chest.

“Nothing. As you were.”

Tim realizes Pete is just checking him out. _Jeez_ , he thinks. He considers putting on a shirt but puts on a show instead, turning to Pete and flexing with a wink. He runs a hand across his abs, which are still in pretty good shape despite his lack of commitment to PT since getting out of the Army.

Pete swallows. “Fuckin’ stud.”

That makes Tim laugh. “I’m really not,” he disagrees, but he likes the attention, so he drags it out a few moments longer.

“You’re just going to tease me?!” Pete scoffs.

“Come and get it,” Tim flirts with a grin.

Pete doesn’t need to be told twice. He sits next to Tim on the bed, takes Tim’s jaw in his hand and kisses him. The kiss is slower this time, less frantic.

Tim relaxes into it, falling back on the bed and bringing Pete with him. It feels good to leave the tension behind, hands exploring each other’s bodies. It seems like things might get intense again, but there’s not enough time for things to get too hot and heavy before a knock on the motel door interrupts them. The noise scares Tim so much that he almost jumps.

“Relax,” Pete laughs. “You ordered pizza, remember?” he reminds Tim.

“Right,” Tim agrees, feeling stupid. He retrieves his wallet and grabs a twenty dollar bill to give to the delivery guy. Tim cracks the door only as much as necessary to accept the pizza, trying to keep the contents of the room private.

“Bon appétit,” Tim grins, presenting the pizza box to Pete.

No plates available, the men set the cardboard pizza box between them and camp over the lid. Tim is hungrier than he thought, eyeing the pizza greedily.

Pete waits to speak up and propose his idea until Tim is chowing down on a slice of pizza.

“Look, Tim — here’s the situation… we’re planning to hit another bank outside Cincinnati in a couple of weeks, right after the New Year. You want in?”

Tim shakes his head. “I’ve got my eye on something bigger.”

“Bigger?” Pete scoffs. “Bigger than ten grand? The gang is hitting a bank at least once a month.”

“It’s not about the money. It’s about doing what needs to be done.” Tim tries to keep his explanation vague.

“You crazy motherfucker,” Pete says with a devilish grin. “You’ve got talents. We could use a guy like you.” Pete drains another lager. “I’ve got an HK-41 with your name on it.”

“Sorry. I’ve gotta hit the road,” Tim answers, non-committal. 

“Where?”

“Arizona.”

“What the fuck is in Arizona, man?”

 _Mike_ , Tim thinks with a smile, realizing he’ll be back with his old Army bunkmate in less than a week.

“Somewhere I’m not freezing my balls off,” Tim answers instead. “Somewhere off the beaten track.”

“Well, if it’s better than your share of $10k, it’s gotta be a girl, right?”

Tim shakes his head.

“Ah,” Pete continues knowingly. “A guy?” 

Tim blushes, turning red and trying to hide his face. 

Pete sees anyway and raises an eyebrow. “It’s okay. No judgment here,” Pete promises. “So you’re on the run?”

“Something like that. Trying to keep my path cool, at least.”

“If it doesn’t work out with your ‘friend’ in Arizona… you know how to find me.”

Tim looks up. Pete actually seems like he might understand Tim’s situation. “You’re the last kind of guy I expected to meet in a white supremacist biker gang, Pete.”

“We’ve all got secrets,” Pete replies. Before tonight, Tim would have assumed he just meant the bank robberies, or some odd assortment of felonies. Now he’s not so sure. “I know you do, McVeigh. I can see it in those eyes.”

Tim averts his eyes. They’d already betrayed him enough.

“You did good today, kid. You’re going places; I can tell.” Pete lies back and folds his arms behind his head.

“Kid? I think you earn the right to stop being called that after they ship you overseas to the Gulf to kill people.”

“That’s right, you’re the desert rat. Fair enough.”

Tim smirks. A companionable silence descends in the room.

Pete catches Tim eyeing the other bed. “Would you just —“ Pete rolls his eyes. “Get over here, Tim.”

Tim turns off the light and crawls into bed next to Pete.

Pete reaches behind him for Tim’s long arm and places it around himself. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah, it’s…” Tim doesn’t know what he’s saying. “Come here.” He uses the arm around Pete’s waist to pull his small body closer until Pete is tucked against Tim’s chest.

Pete sighs, though, content, and Tim follows him to sleep. As Tim drifts off, he recalls mild amusement: he held up a bank this afternoon and yet somehow, this seems like the riskiest part of his day.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a MTF character before, though this is 2-3 years pre-transition. It's not meant to be much of a thing here, but I hope I did OK - constructive criticism always welcome.


End file.
